The moment the broth finished simmering, I heard footsteps.
Draven entered—carrying Myrielle in his arms.
Her ankle was wrapped in glowing lunar gauze. She leaned into him, pale and delicate, as though the slightest breeze could shatter her.
“Lunessa, you’re home?” Draven frowned, worry flashing through his eyes. “You’re still not fully healed. You should be resting in the healer-sanctum. Let the house maid handle the cooking.”
I met his gaze evenly. “You sent all the maids to Myrielle’s manor to make her moon-desserts. Remember?”
It had been an offhand remark—Myrielle claiming she preferred my maid’s food over hers. The next day, Draven sent every maid we had to her estate, leaving me feverish, cooking alone.
He froze, realization flickering in his eyes. His expression tightened before he smoothly shifted the subject.
“Regardless… Myrielle didn’t want to remain in the healer-sanctum. She’ll stay here for a few days—until her injury recovers.”
“Do as you wish,” I whispered, turning back to the simmering pot. I refused to dwell on why Myrielle had abandoned her mansion full of servants just to be coddled by him.
My words made him stiffen. His brows pinched and he kept watching me, as though trying to decode what had changed.
Then Myrielle’s voice—soft as dew—broke the silence.
“Draven… I’m a little hungry. Lunessa’s broth smells wonderful. Do you think… I might have a taste?”
He immediately turned. “Lunessa, serve her a bowl. She ensured the healers tended to your father today. She wanted to make amends.”
Make amends?
The very wolf who delayed his ritual until he nearly ended up lame—now wanted to “make amends for it” by sipping my broth?
But refusing her would endanger my father.
So I lowered my head and ladled the broth.
“Oh, I couldn’t possibly,” Myrielle murmured, feigning distress. “This must be for Elder Silverhaze. I’ve caused so many troubles—I shouldn’t take a drop…”
“It’s fine,” Draven said quickly, soothing. “Lunessa doesn’t blame you. Right, Lunessa?”
His sharp gaze pinned me like a command.
My throat closed. No words came out.
Seeing my silence, Myrielle’s eyes gleamed with victory. She stepped forward, pretending to reach for the bowl.
“Lunessa, you’re so kind,” she cooed. “Draven and I grew up together. You’re his mate—I truly hope we can get along.”
Her hand brushed mine—soft, fragile.